


Agreed

by mythology1746



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:29:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythology1746/pseuds/mythology1746
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What exactly happened between Sibella and Phoebe that they worked out "That Horrible Woman" and agreed to share Monty?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agreed

Phoebe D’Ysquit Navarro tugged her wrap tight around her stiff shoulders, She would _not_ cry—she had a mission, and God damn it, she would succeed. Hurt or anger, those could all come later. She kept her head down, but her eyes flickered around, watching out for other people and hoping she didn’t look too conspicuous as she searched for the address she’d taken from her husband’s office.

The Holland estate was relatively large, though compared to Highurst castle (or even her own childhood home), it looked modest. Not to mention dull, lacking any adornments.

There was no bell, so Phoebe reached out for the heavy bronze knocker, lifting and dropping it twice. Only seconds later, it was flung open, and the Countess jumped back in surprise. A perturbed-looking servant appeared, glaring. “A bit late for socializing, en’t it?”

Disgusted, Phoebe drew herself to her full height. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are?”

He crossed his arms. “It’s the middle of the night, Missus—”

“Lady Phoebe Navarro, Countess of Highurst.”

The servant’s eyes bugged, and he bowed hastily. “M’lady—I’m so sorry, ma’am. Master Lionel is in London.”

“No, no,” Phoebe waved her hand. “I do not seek Mr. Holland, but his wife.”

Reluctantly, the servant said, “The Missus has requested not to be disturbed, you Ladyship.”

“Regardless, I _must_ speak with her. This matter is of the highest importance.”

The manservant looked skeptical, but he opened the door and stood aside. “Please follow me to the parlour.”

Silently, Phoebe followed. The man left to fetch Mrs. Holland after hastily excusing himself, and Phoebe took a seat on the chaise, perching gingerly on the edge of the cushion. The room was excessively simple, with tan walls oak furnishing, and white cloth. How a woman like Sibella Holland—whose wardrobe was, to the best of Phoebe’s knowledge, exclusively shades of pink—could live in a home this dull made no sense.

“Countess Navarro.”

At the sound of her name, Phoebe’s head snapped up, her gaze falling on the blonde woman. Mrs. Holland wore a simple, pale pink dressing gown; her fair hair was down in knots, framing her face, and her eyes were red and puffy. She’d all but collapsed into one of the couches.

Before Phoebe could speak, Sibella said, “I know that Mr. Navarro is awaiting his verdict tonight, and he’s probably going to die. You must know that hadn’t been my intention _at all_ when I spoke. I wasn’t thinking.”

Phoebe blinked. She’s forgotten Sibella’s testimony had been so vehement during the trial, going on about how Monty would have every right to kill the previous Earl to inherit the title. There was too much else on her mind to think about that.

“Never mind that,” Phoebe said, shaking her head. “I’m not angry about that—I’m sure that they would have arrested him with or without that.” She paused. Before she could think, she asked, “Why didn’t _you_ marry him?”

Clearly Mrs. Holland hadn’t been expecting that. She blinked, “Pardon me?”

“It’s clear you care for him, Mrs. Holland—might I call you by your Christian name?”

“Yes—yes, that’s fine.” Sibella paused. “What makes you think I care for him?”

“The way you look at him—well, it’s the way _I_ looked at him, before we married. And your eyes—you must have been crying, and I can’t imagine it’s because Mr. Holland is away.”

 Sibella blanched. “Monty and I are childhood friends. I have every right to be worried over him.”

“I—I hadn’t known that.”

“No, I can’t imagine he would have mentioned it,” said the blonde, sounding spiteful.

“Still, why did the two of you never marry?”

“Countess Navarro…Phoebe…look. You’re right. I care for Monty…so much. He’s a wonderful, charming man…and when I’d known him, he’d been dirt poor. He was a dreamer, and he was lovely, but…I wanted more.” Sibella’s eyes closed, and Phoebe saw a tear slip down her cheek. “After my honeymoon, I realized my mistake, but…it was too late.”

“Did he ever propose,” Phoebe asked suddenly.

Sibella stared at Phoebe, and the latter woman realized she probably didn’t want to know the answer, but she wouldn’t take it back and look foolish.

“Yes. But Lionel and I were already engaged.”

The two woman were silent. Phoebe took comfort in knowing that Monty hadn’t met her yet. It was still somewhat heartbreaking, and as Sibeela hadn’t been married very long, they must have still had feelings for one another.

Finally, Phoebe said, “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m comfortable about the of you. But we both will be hurt if Monty is convicted in the morning. I would be willing to give you _anything_ for your assistance freeing him.”

“You’d like to break him out of prison?” asked Sibella, sounding skeptical.

“I’d like to clear his name.”

Sibella stared, wordlessly, for a moment; then, she broke out, laughing mirthlessly. “And how do you propose we do that? The only way they’d clear him is if they found the man who murdered him.” She huffed. “Monty said you love literature, but unless reading Dickens has provided you the capacity to solve murder in less than twelve hours, it’s simply hopeless.”

Phoebe didn’t bother telling Sibella that Charles Dickens didn’t write mystery novels. “We don’t need to actually find the murderer. We just need them to _think_ they have.”

The sarcastic expression faded straight from Sibella’s face. “I sense a devious plan. Do tell.”

“We can’t randomly accuse someone else. But…we can accuse each other.”

“And both take his place at the gallows?”

“Not at all,” said Phoebe. “Henry—my brother, that is—he once explained to me that if there is any reasonable doubt, no conviction can be made. If there’s evidence against us both, then…well, no one can be convicted!”

Though Sibella closed her eyes, Phoebe could see the blonde’s brain working. She took this time to study her. What exactly Monty saw in her was beyond Pheobe—sure, the other woman was attractice, but she was also vain, devious, and clever while at the same time being uneducated. In all, she was nothing like Phoebe herself, and aside from their mutual affection of Monty, she couldn’t imagine they had anything in common.

“So,” Sibella said finally. “What kind of evidence do you suggest?”

“I don’t know yet. Perhaps letters?”

“What could we right?” Deadpanned Sibella. “‘Dearest Montague, I’m the one that killed the Earl, sorry I landed you in jail?’”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “‘My dear Monty, You were the one who deserved the Earldom over fussy old Adalbert. It was I who poisoned the old fool so you might take his place, and I promise I’ll get you out of this mess as soon as possible.’”

“I must admit,” said Sibella, “that is quite brilliant. Perhaps all those cutting remarks I’ve made about you were in vain.”

Phoebe chose to let that comment go. “Then we are agreed?”

“Yes,” nodded the blonde, “Yes, we are agreed.”


End file.
